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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29994387">but i want you like a dying man</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Biting, M/M, Making Out, Not Beta Read, Ringing my little bell in a corner yelling ITS NOT HORNY ITS NOT FUCKING HORNY ITS NOT H, Trapped In A Closet, but like, but specifically revenge Against the person you're making out with, good fucking gods i have to tag this now, good gods! these bitches are touch starved! awful for them! awful for them, hmm. How do i tag this., i hate it here i dont want to write these tags, i wrote the vast majroity of this at the hours of 12-4 am, in a malignant way, making out as revenge, they are just so fucking touch starved, this was NOT written with horny intent and i FORBID you from reading it that way, you know</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:01:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,350</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29994387</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Truly, there's no excuse for it.</p><p>Yet still, they shiver; and still, they fall utterly apart in one another’s grasp.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Obi-Wan Kenobi &amp; Darth Maul, Obi-Wan Kenobi/Darth Maul</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>78</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>but i want you like a dying man</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>"why did you write this"<br/>-i'm going insane<br/>-that's it</p><p>that aside, i legitimately do not have an answer for why i wrote this, or why i decided that the google doc needed to be red and black like the inside of a hot topic and then subsequently decided that i needed an ao3 workskin to match. im having a moment leave me alone</p><p>EDIT: removed the workskin for accessibility purposes, but i'm leaving the description up becuase i think its funny. relic of a bygone era</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Truly, there’s no excuse for it.</p><p>Maul’s fangs hover a hairsbreadth over his neck, breath hot on his skin, unmoving, mocking. His hand curls around Obi-wan’s wrist, tightens until it burns like a brand. </p><p>It was an inevitability, really-- they’re too close to each other, far, far too close, the wine-dusk of the tiny space fallen like a fine silk veil over the gaping, unfillable mouth of some cruel, unholy beast-- an acolyte of consumption. Always wanting, always taking, never satisfied. </p><p>A long, aching moment passes, where the tension pulls itself taut, stretching impossibly far under immovable pressure. </p><p>When they are this close, blood will be drawn. it’s only a matter of <em> how.</em></p><p>Maul drags his teeth down, leaving white-hot trails in their wake, moving across to brush over the tender stretch of space between collarbone and throat, over plain flesh-- </p><p>--and bites down harshly. </p><p>Obi-wan grinds his teeth together to keep from crying out in pain, and only succeeds in muffling it into something more like a strangled whimper. </p><p>He blinks white sparks out of his vision. A sharp, chilling shiver of something like agony or maybe adrenaline sweeps through him, and the hand left unpinned slides from Maul’s wrist to shoulder to back, gouging useless scratches into his tunic. </p><p>Maul’s teeth slide away, to drift towards somewhere else he knows will <em> hurt. </em>A tangle of feeling is coming to a head in the force and Obi-wan’s gut, a desperate bid for balance, power. This is not, he thinks in a singular, wild moment of self-awareness, anywhere close to any kind of Jedi ideal-- but here he is in this wretched, dust-filled storage closet, and he feels more alive than he has in months, the kind of aliveness that can only be found within the exquisite agony of teeth where there should be death, that kind of heady adrenaline rush of standing on the edge of <em> falling </em> and deciding to look down, just for fun, just to feel something. </p><p>It's horrible selfishness in the absence of the elegant facade called <em> dignity</em>, really; the pettiest kind of revenge in the darkest kind of corners. It’s not befitting of him, but he puts it on anyway, bares it as a threat in the absence of fangs.</p><p>So he gathers the strength not taken by their brief-but-incensed scuffle at the beginning of-- <em> this</em>, and pitches himself forward off the wall, putting enough force behind his movement to right himself again, push forward, taking, taking. </p><p>his hair brushes across his forehead, fallen out of its carefully-composed arrangement. He can’t find it in himself to care, not now, not as they struggle with each other all over again, all grips and claws and bruises (but only some blood, and no weapons to be seen-- because this is not a play to an end, this is a play for power. The end will come in its own time, and they both know this. It does not stop them; in fact, it’s what enables them in the first place).</p><p>Obi-wan hooks a leg behind metal ankle, shoving Maul’s shoulders until he topples back, now laid almost diagonally across some flat surface, not-quite identifiable in the darkness. His hand grasps tightly a wrist above Maul’s head, the other pushing his opponent’s chin up, his own wrist in Maul’s grasp there-- more or less, a rough reflection of how they had been before.</p><p>Something passes over Maul’s face, spikes as a slash of lightning through the violent storm of force crashing around them both-- taut like too-high air pressure, like the red sun that hangs behind war smoke; that watches men die. </p><p>(There is no death here; only the white sparks behind eyelids, and the red blood (black in the darkness), and the golden-amber that Obi-wan’s eyes are glowing, the arches of his face bathed in the hue.</p><p>They will never turn that color again-- and he will never know, because Maul will never tell him. This is only here, now.)</p><p> --as reflections go, and as some awful instinct wills him, Obi-wan looks at the swath of exposed skin that Maul’s tunic allows and leans forward enough to sink his teeth into it. </p><p>Maul <em> growls, </em> his entire body jolting in place. And Obi-wan can <em> feel </em> the sound as he can the motion running through his chest, against his teeth, and isn’t <em> that </em> a sick, heady shot of catharsis rushing straight to his skull, buzzing in his mind as his mouth fills with the coppery tang of blood. </p><p>Maul releases his grip on Obi-wan’s wrist to push him down by the small of his back, bringing his mouth again to skin, skirting past his neck, past where the real damage would be done, up to the hollow by his ear, where he sinks in sharp, bitter pinpricks of pain. They remain there for barely a moment before they’re ghosting across his jaw, his cheek. </p><p><em> Where it will hurt the most</em>, Obi-wan has a second to think, and then Maul has caught his lip between fangs and is biting down, drawing blood.</p><p>Obi-wan draws in an involuntary gasp of pain, his fingernails carving crescents where his hands still meet Maul’s body. <em> Where it will hurt the most</em>, he tells himself again, not-- </p><p>--not--</p><p>--not that the impulse to draw closer is lost to him, no, what more can he <em> take </em>than this, so when Maul’s hand slips idly from his back to the nape of his neck, he allows himself to be drawn forward by the motion, allows--</p><p>--but he cannot <em> allow </em> here, because that would mean ceding the fight; so he redoubles the pressure he had forgotten to put into holding his opponent down, and firmly, purposefully, finally presses their mouths together.</p><p>Needless to say that they do not kiss <em> gently</em>, if it can be called a kiss at all-- more a clash of teeth and lips and maybe tongues, all the same kind of contest in different forms. </p><p>At some point, one or both of them loses the will to bite, to draw blood, and settles for simple bruises, marks drawn out from flesh instead of carved in. Their movements become a parody of a rhythm, the discordant echo of some sick melody somewhere.</p><p>It would almost (<em>almost</em>) be something approaching <em> tender</em>, if it weren’t for the ichor smearing between them, for the shallow gashes still clinging to their skin. The most precarious kind of balance can be found here: between teeth and flesh, between the glimpse of a chink in gleaming armor and the mouth watering for blood.</p><p>They move in this space ruthlessly, what’s softer now by touch more than made up for by the unrelenting piety of mind, devoted to bringing victory as if it were for the glory of a god.</p><p>(But gods are not flesh and blood. Gods are not taken by such petty desires as to hold your enemies down and gouge reminders into them that you were <em> there</em>, that they will remember this for the rest of their wretched lives.</p><p>So no, they are not gods-- but oh, is the blood still sweet as nectar on their tongues.)</p><p>And time slows their movements, smoothes them into something like poison in a drink, syrupy and deadly, because the truth of it is:</p><p>What better way to destroy your enemy than to press your hands to his skin, press your lips to his own? Rend him apart piece by meticulous piece, kiss him so achingly, unfamiliarly soft that he begins to shiver out of fear-- fear of you, or it, or fear of what you’re doing, or fear of something else entirely.</p><p>And the Jedi look down upon attachment, the Sith upon affection. Neither of them would drink from this well for anything more easily convinced of-- neither of them would let themselves. Maybe that is what they shake from, this betrayal of their invisible ideals. For both of them, this is something forbidden. Unacknowledged. And for each of them, it's a different temptation: the tenderness, and the catharsis.</p><p>Yet still, they shiver; and still, they fall utterly apart in one another’s grasp. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
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</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i hope you enjoyed! please revel in my brainrot with me</p><p>the title is from You Are Perfect, Too by Amigo The Devil which is a fucking PEAK song for these two i wont lie</p></blockquote></div></div>
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